


Marlon Brando, Eat Your Heart Out

by imogenbynight



Series: Odds and Ends [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel on a motorcycle, Castiel's dom!eyebrow, Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, terrible motorcycle safety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 14:26:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3491696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imogenbynight/pseuds/imogenbynight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Castiel trades his pimpmobile for a chopper, and Dean is not impressed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marlon Brando, Eat Your Heart Out

**Author's Note:**

> A tumblr ficlet written for the prompt; "Have you lost your damn mind?!"

The weigh station doesn’t look like it’s been used in years. Trash litters the cracked blacktop, and in the patch of overgrown grass that separates them from the I-90 Dean can see an overturned shopping cart and the shredded remains of a burst truck tire. They’ve been waiting in the cold for about half an hour, watching the occasional late-night traveler heading up toward Wisconsin, when the distant roar of a motorcycle cuts through the quiet.

“Jesus, that’s loud,” Dean complains, glancing over at Sam where he’s leaning against the hood looking down at his cell phone. “Cas said eleven, right?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, sending Dean the kind of irritating smirk that makes Dean wish he and Castiel were still in the sneak-around-and-don’t-tell-Sam phase of their relationship, rather than the Sam-knows phase that still hasn’t stopped being annoying after two months. “Your long lost love should be here any minute now.”

Dean rolls his eyes and only just manages to refrain from telling Sam to go fuck himself.

It’s been about a week since Castiel took off to see Claire, and though Dean has been busy with the case he and Sam were working in Wisconsin, he’s missed the guy. Sue him. The way he sees it, he spent long enough pining in the years leading up to them actually figuring things out, and he doesn’t like these long stretches of absence that they still occasionally get stuck with.

So maybe he’s been moping a little.

Maybe when Castiel called a few hours ago and said he was in Iowa and would meet them on the road tonight, he got so excited he spilled soda all over himself. Maybe he’s been buzzing with anticipation for hours and has asked what time it is a little more often than strictly necessary ever since they got here. So what? Sam doesn’t have to be such a little brother about it.

Sticking his numb hands into the crooks of his elbows, Dean bounces onto the balls of his feet a little, trying to get his blood flowing. He’s just about to get back into the car to wait where it’s warmer when the sound of the distant motorcycle grows a whole lot louder, and he looks up in time to see the glinting chrome handlebars of an old chopper pulling into the weigh station.

The biker doesn’t slow down until the last moment, coming right up beside them, and it’s not until then that it fully registers in Dean’s head that the biker isn’t a biker at all. It’s Castiel, his trench coat billowing around him as he rolls to a stop.

“What the hell,” Dean says, staring at him, and beside him Sam echoes the sentiment.

Castiel just beams.

“Hello Dean,” he says, looking inordinately pleased with himself as he glances between the brothers. “Sam.”

For a moment, Dean can’t quite manage to talk, because Castiel’s hair is sticking straight up, and his face is splotchy and red from wind chill, and Dean is going to strangle him. When he finally gets his voice to work, it comes out harsh and angry.

“Have you lost your damn mind!?”

The grin on Castiel’s face fades slowly into an expression of confusion.

“I don’t believe so,” he says carefully. “What’s the matter?”

“What’s the—” Dean starts, gesturing at the bike Castiel is still straddling, staring at him with wide, incredulous eyes. “What’s the matter? Really, Cas? Really?!”

The furrow in Castiel’s brow only deepens, and he looks from Dean to Sam, clearly hoping for clarification. His foot shoves at the kickstand until it moves into place, and he slides easily from the seat as though he’s done it a thousand times and smooths his coat down. _God, he looks hot,_ Dean thinks. The thought distracts him from his ire until Sam speaks, but then it comes back full force.

“Nice bike,” Sam says, and Dean’s eyes just about bug out of his head.

“You’re not helping, Sam.”

“What?”

Turning away from his brother, Dean grinds his teeth and tries to calm down.

“Do you know how easy it is to get in a wreck on one of these things?” he asks. His voice is still coming out sharp and angry despite his effort not to yell, and his voice carries loudly across the deserted weigh station. Castiel frowns.

“I have very good balance.”

“You’re not even wearing a helmet, Cas!”

“The man in Des Moines said I didn’t need one,” Castiel tells him, and Dean lifts his hands in the air.

“Oh, well if the man in Des Moines said so then what the hell do I know,” he says, pulling a face as he turns and stalks away, needing to take a few deep breaths before he completely loses it. Back where he’s still standing beside Castiel and his death machine, Sam clears his throat.

“Actually,” he pipes up, “you don’t have to wear a helmet in Iowa or Illinois. Or New Hampshire, I think. Legally speaking.”

“Who the hell cares about legally?” Dean asks. “It’s common fucking sense.”

Collecting himself, Dean turns back around to face them, avoiding the puzzled look on Sam’s face as he addresses Castiel. “Where’s the Lincoln?”

“I traded it with the man in Des Moines,” Castiel tells him with a frown. He tilts his head a little to the side. “You hated that car.”

“Yeah, well it was a piece of shit,” Dean tells him, and clenches his jaw. “But at least it was safe.”

Staring at him, Castiel furrows his brow in thought until something seems to dawn on him, and he takes a half step forward.

“You’re worried I’ll injure myself,” he says, voice soft. Surprised. Like this is new information. It only pisses Dean off more.

“Well excuse me if I don’t want you to die, you asshole.”

“It would take a lot more than a motorcycle accident to kill me, Dean,” Castiel tells him. And yeah, maybe he has a point—he’s got his own grace back, after all. Short of the wings he’s pretty much a fully functioning angel again.

“Still,” Dean says lamely, and grinds his teeth a little as he tries to come up with a rational reason for why Castiel shouldn’t keep the chopper. Something that isn’t the thought of you getting flattened by a truck scares the shit out of me. Something that isn’t even if you can fix yourself with barely a thought, I love you too much to let you put yourself in harms way. He comes up with nothing. He’s not entirely surprised about that, though. He’s been coming up with nothing for years when it comes to telling Castiel what he’s actually thinking, what he’s actually feeling. He usually knows anyway. He normally gets it. Dean wonders if there’s some way he can convey this in touches, in a kiss. He doesn’t know if he can.

“Dean—”

“Just promise me you won’t ride that thing,” he grinds out, shaking his head.

“But—”

“Promise me, Cas.”

Castiel looks forlornly at the motorcycle, then back at Dean.

“If I got a helmet, would you still object?”

Dean’s jaw twitches. He wants to keep arguing, or preferably, set the motorbike on fire so that the matter is out of his hands. But Castiel looks so hopeful. He looked so happy with it when he first rode up. Like he’d loved the feeling of speeding along with the wind in his hair. Dean knows a lost argument when he sees one. He sighs.

“Fine,” he mutters, and Castiel grins like a kid whose parents have finally caved in and said yes to a trip to Disneyland. It’s ridiculous, because it’s not like Castiel actually needs his permission for anything. The guy is a million years old, for crying out loud. Still, Dean crosses his arms. “But you’ll need a proper jacket, too.”

“I’ve got my coat.”

“No, if you’re gonna be riding that thing, you need a leather jacket,” Dean tells him, and feels his face heat up a little when he lets himself picture Castiel dressed like a young Marlon Brando in _The Wild One_ , or James Dean, or—he clears his throat. “Maybe even leather pants.”

Beside him, Sam snorts, and Dean can feel his judgemental smirk like a physical object. He clears his throat and adds, “Y’know. For safety.”

Sam’s snort turns into a full laugh, at that, but Dean just sets his jaw and stares Castiel down, pointedly not responding to his brother. Castiel stares back, eyes narrowing a little as he takes in the blush Dean knows has overtaken his face, and slowly arches his brow. Dean tries not to fidget under his gaze. That is not an expression he’s used to seeing in public. Certainly not when he’s the one making demands.

“Alright,” Castiel says, finally, and Dean relaxes until his next words make it difficult to think straight. “If you let me keep it, I’ll wear whatever you like.”


End file.
